


Somewhere Just Beyond My Reach

by trashcangimmick



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Age Play, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Daddy Kink, Drugged Sex, I Lost Control of this Dumpster Fire About Two Paragraphs In, M/M, Rape Fantasy, Somnophilia, caveat emptor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-05-07 15:54:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14674422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashcangimmick/pseuds/trashcangimmick
Summary: Sometimes, Rhys takes sleeping pills and then he and Jack play a very special game.





	Somewhere Just Beyond My Reach

**Author's Note:**

> On the one hand, I wrote this instead of an even worse fic. Twenty points if you can guess what that would have been. On the other hand, this is definitely Very Bad. Please read the tags. Don't try this at home kids!

The game always starts with, “not tonight, Jack. I have a headache.”

 

Rhys will smile, and brush Jack’s hands away like he’s not the biggest slut in the universe. Because sure, Rhys looks all cute and innocent. But under that thin veneer of professionalism, he’s the perfect hedonist. Never happier than when he’s choking on a dick, crying from a lack of oxygen.

 

The first few times, Jack was unbalanced by the sudden denials. Because Rhys is a sure thing. That’s his whole selling point. The kid’s always ready to go. Anywhere, anytime, the riskier the better. Jack’s office, the bathroom in a coffee shop, the back seat of a car, or even some dark corner in a sleazy club. Rhys will drop to his knees at the slightest suggestion. He’ll clamber into Jack’s lap and bounce on his cock at every available opportunity.

 

Really, Jack should have guessed that something else was going on. The idea of Rhys purposefully turning him down was always ludicrous.

 

“Aw, come on, babe.” Jack squeezes Rhys’ hips, playing along with the setup. “I bet it would make you feel better.”

 

They’re standing in front of the bathroom vanity. Rhys attempting to get ready for bed, while Jack is wrapped around him, chest pressed against his back, kissing his neck.

 

“Stop it.”

 

Rhys makes direct eye contact as he pops a sleeping pill in his mouth and swallows it. There was a time when that gesture wouldn’t have done anything for Jack, but now it sends an intense lurch of arousal through his whole body. Rhys takes the strongest stuff a doctor will prescribe. For legitimate insomnia. But boy does it have other uses.

 

After taking a few sips of water, Rhys pulls away. Jack lets him go with some measure of reluctance. He allows Rhys to shoo him out of the room and close the door.

 

Jack hears the shower turn on. He sinks into the couch and pours himself a fresh glass of scotch from the bottle on the table. The anticipation is half the fun. Just sitting there. Imagining what Rhys is doing on the other side of the door.

 

Rhys has an impressive collection of toys stashed in what used to be the linen closet. Dildos with suction cups that he’ll stick against the shower wall and really go to town on. It’s a beautiful thing to watch. Rhys bracing his hand against the glass door, slowly sinking back onto a thick silicone cock. Working himself up to a steady undulation. He’s all smooth skin and lithe muscle. Moves like he was born to dance on a pole.

  
Fuck. Jack is already half hard. He resists the urge to do anything about it. Despite the excitement twisting through him. Making him breathe a little too fast.

 

The sound of water pattering against tile and glass mostly masks any other noises. Maybe Jack’s imagining the soft, shaky gasps. But he probably isn’t.

 

Before too long, the bathroom door swings open, letting steam filter out into the living room. Rhys is wrapped in a towel. Skin pink from the warm water. He pointedly ignores Jack as he walks past. He just heads right for the bedroom. Walking like a damn runway model, ass swaying back and forth with each step.

 

Jack hangs back long enough to finish his drink. But the excitement is building. He can’t keep from thinking about the heat of Rhys’ body. He needs to feel it. Bury himself in it.

 

Rhys is already settled under the covers. Probably naked, he rarely bothers with pajamas. Jack flicks off the light switch and strips out of his clothes. Rhys stirs a little when Jack lies down next to him and drapes an arm around him. The pill should be kicking in soon, if it hasn’t started to already. Rhys barely responds when Jack pulls him closer and starts kissing his neck again. He’s a soft, warm rag doll. Eyes closed, breath slowing.

 

“You still awake, baby?” Jack barely murmurs against Rhys’ skin.

 

Of course, Rhys doesn’t reply. Jack is so hard it hurts. He’s full of that urgent, shuddery lust that’s impossible to ignore. It’s the sort of adrenaline you can really only get by doing something that you know is wrong.

Jack trails a hand across Rhys’ ass and slips a finger between his cheeks. Just like he expected. Rhys is already slick and open. It’s the clearest invitation imaginable.

 

Still. Jack grabs the lube off the nightstand. Smears some on his cock. He lines up and presses forward nice and slow.

 

 _“Fuck,”_ Jack breathes. Because there’s no other word for it. Rhys is perfect. Tight, slippery heat. Jack wants to savor it. But he has to keep going.

 

Rhys lets out a soft groan. He stays otherwise still. Dead weight sprawled across the mattress. Jack cradles him close as he bottoms out. He takes a few deep breaths. Then starts rocking into Rhys, gentle as he can. Like he’s trying not to wake the kid up.

 

Sometimes, Rhys does manage to sleep through it. Whenever that happens, it leaves Jack burning with an interesting mix of shame and arousal. Guilt isn’t a thing he usually feels. Using a sleeping partner like a sex toy, though, triggers it at least partially. It’s a singular experience. Having an orgasm inside somebody while they’re completely unaware of what’s happening. It feels dirty. Stolen pleasure with a twist of depravity that’s almost uncomfortable.

 

The first time, when Jack came to bed drunk and annoyed, hours after Rhys rejected him, he told himself he wouldn’t really go through with it. He thought about it. Just taking what he wanted, whether Rhys was in the mood or not. But he wouldn’t _actually_ do something like that. Or so he thought. Until he pressed up against Rhys’ back, with some vague idea of jerking off, rubbing the head of his cock between those wonderfully plush ass cheeks. He felt the traces of lube. Found himself slipping forward.

 

It felt so fucking good. Addictively toxic. Next thing he knew, he had Rhys pinned face down, fucking him sloppy and fast like a goddamned animal. Rhys barely moved. Just let out a few soft whimpers. Jack didn’t even notice that Rhys was touching himself. Just felt it when Rhys came and started to spasm around him.

 

“Mmm, that was nice,” Rhys mumbled when it was all said and done. “I was starting to worry that you didn’t have the balls.”

 

“You could have just _asked_ for it.”

 

“Where’s the fun in that?”

 

Of course, Rhys is kind of a crazy little bitch. Likes to play with stuff most people avoid at all costs. He wants to be choked, and bruised, and even cut. It took some prodding to even get him to use a safe word.

 

It’s all probably still a bad idea. Jack shouldn’t keep chasing him down the rabbit hole. But also, Jack isn’t exactly the paragon of self-control. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t _like_ all the shit Rhys wants him to do. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t turn him on and get him off harder than anything else ever has.

 

Rhys is tall, but he’s basically all leg, so he’s not very heavy. It’s easy to maneuver him onto his back. The change in position makes his eyes flutter. The pills must not have dragged him all the way down yet.

 

Jack loves it this way. When Rhys reaches for him in a sleepy daze. Limbs heavy. Movements unfocused.

 

 _“Daddy… what–what are you doing?”_ The words come out a little slurred.

 

It’s like a gut punch. Jack’s clumsy, falling forward, pushing into Rhys, holding him tight. He can’t keep himself from moving. Shallow, stuttering thrusts. All eagerness, with no regard for tempo.

 

“Shh, shh, it’s OK, baby.”  

 

“It feels weird.” Rhys still barely sounds halfway coherent, like he could nod off again at any moment. He puts on a show of struggling. Trying to half-heartedly squirm out of Jack’s embrace.

 

“Give Daddy a minute. It’ll be over soon. I promise.”

 

“I’m too full.”

 

“Relax, sweetheart. Everything is fine.” Jack can’t help gathering speed as he finds a more regular rhythm. He’s burning up. He can feel Rhys’ erection rubbing against his stomach, leaving a snail-trail of sticky excitement.

 

Jack shifts enough of his weight off Rhys so that he can slide a hand between them. He rubs his thumb under the head of Rhys’ cock.

 

 _“Daddy,”_ Rhys whines. He’s gearing up for the water works. Eyes shiny in a great facsimile of confused betrayal.

 

Jack starts to jerk him off in earnest. Cherishing every little moan that he can make Rhys gasp out.

 

“Doesn’t it feel good, baby?”

 

“I—I don’t know—“ Rhys clutches at Jack’s shoulders. Back arching. Breath quickening. “What’s happening?”

 

“Just let go. You’ll like it.”

 

Rhys wails. There are real tears streaming down his cheeks. The kid is a great actor. So good, it’s almost concerning. He can cry on command. Flip a switch and go from a blubbering mess to a perfectly composed primadonna. Under all the flirting, and pouting, and demands for attention, Jack has to wonder if Rhys actually gives a shit about any of this or if it’s serving some darker purpose.

 

It’s perfectly plausible that Rhys will try to kill him someday. Little Rhysie wouldn’t be the first ambitious upstart to crawl into Jack’s bed with the worst intentions. He probably won’t be the last, either. It’s the price of banging sweet young things that are smart enough to be entertaining for more than a night. They turn out to be ladder-climbing ice queens or utter sociopaths.

 

Rhys starts to tense. Whispering, _please, Daddy, it’s too much, I’m scared_ –between shaky sobs. It tugs at something hot and dark at Jack’s core. This is what absolute power feels like. Having another vulnerable human body trembling underneath you, begging for mercy, unable to retaliate in any meaningful sense of the word. Jack could do anything right now. Rhys is too drugged up and sluggish to stop him. Jack could hurt him. Bruise and break him until he’s unrecognizable. Jack could wrap a hand around that elegant, sawn-like throat and choke the life right out of him.

 

Lucky for Rhys, Jack is a hero.

 

So instead of taking advantage of such a compromising situation, Jack just offers up exactly what Rhys wants. Pleasure. Safety. Twisted fantasy fulfilment without the complications of reality. He presses a soft kiss against Rhys’ cheek, pushes into him just a little deeper, and revels in the beautiful crash and burn as they reach the climax. Rhys falls apart, body squeezing down around Jack’s cock. He moans so sweetly, twitching with the aftershocks, making a sticky mess between them.

 

“So good, baby,” Jack groans. “Feel so fucking good.”

 

It’s Jack’s turn to let go, now. He can’t last any longer. He almost wants to pull out, just to finish all over Rhys’ pretty face. The kid never looks better than when he’s covered in come. But it’s too late to be making those sort of decisions. He manages a few more quick, abortive thrusts before the money shot. He shudders, filling Rhys up, drowning in the sensation overload. Though each consecutive pulse of pleasure wanes slightly faster, they don’t get less satisfying. Jack feels like he’s on top of the goddamned world, if he’s being honest.

 

He slumps, letting his full weight rest on top of Rhys, and takes a moment to catch his breath. Of course, Rhys doesn’t try to move from underneath him. Probably couldn’t if he wanted to.

 

Rhys has stopped crying. He’s struggling to keep his eyes open. Blinking slow and heavy. His grip on Jack’s shoulders weakening by the second.

 

“That’s it, honey.” Jack brushes the hair back out of Rhys’ face. “You were such a good boy for me. Go back to sleep.”

 

A smile twitches across Rhys’ kiss-bruised lips before he gives in to the drugs and slips off into unconsciousness. Jack rolls off him, onto his back, trying to regain some of his composure. There’s no sense in cleaning up just yet. After all, the night is young.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been listening to the Frou Frou version of [Holding Out for a Hero](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZfW9nVWXrlI) on repeat and now it's forever sullied because I live in Rhack garbage hell.


End file.
